


From Beyond

by captainahmedica



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Crying, Ghosts, Haunting, M/M, a lot of sadness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-26
Updated: 2015-01-31
Packaged: 2018-03-03 14:47:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2854658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainahmedica/pseuds/captainahmedica
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Stiles dies, Scott's having an especially tough time going through the grieving process. That is, until, it appears Stiles tries to come back...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is entirely based on this awesome [AU GIF set created by obrozey](http://obrozey.tumblr.com/post/105990530386/scott-stiles-ghost-au-aka-ghost-boyfriends-for). I saw it and I couldn't help myself.

Every time Scott closed his eyes he imagined what it would be like to never be able to open them again. To be taken away into an infinite darkness—a world far different than this one.

Every time he opened his eyes, it was like realizing he was in a terrible nightmare, but one he couldn't wake up from no matter how hard he pinched himself. And thus he closed his eyes and opened them again, and again, and again, with every blink praying and pleading with the God he barely believed in to let this not be real.

But the weight he held in his arms was real—a weight that was slowly but surely shifting to his heart.

And yet he persisted. Trying and trying and trying to blink it all away, to wake up and have all of this fade into nothingness. But he was fighting a losing battle.

His best friend was gone, and there was no going back.

 _There's no way,_ Scott reasoned with himself. _We always figure it out. Always._

He could feel the tears welling up in his eyes, blurring his vision slightly. His breaths grew shallow. His brain had realized what had happened but Scott's heart was not ready to accept it.

Unable to hold his thoughts back, he began to stutter out, "C'mon, Stiles. You didn't tell me about this part of the plan. It's over dude, we won. You can wake up now." His hand subconsciously found his friend's and held it. It was still warm. "Stiles..." Scott whispered out one more time before squeezing his eyes shut, forcing a few tears he'd been holding back to roll down his face. He remained kneeling there for a while, completely still and silent.

He didn't know how long Derek and the others had let him sit there holding his best friend's body, but it wasn't long enough.

He wanted to hold on to him forever.

\---

The next few days weren't easy on Scott. Stiles' absence was anything but unnoticeable. He and Scott's lives were so intertwined that nearly every part of Scott's schedule involved Stiles somehow—driving to school, the classes they had together, lunch, lacrosse practice, and even at home. Whenever his mom swung open the front door as she returned from work, his heart always hoped it was Stiles who had finally found his way back and how this was all some big misunderstanding.

But it never was.

"Hey sweetie," Melissa spoke softly as she placed her things on the shelf by the stairs and hung her coat. "Did you eat yet?"

Scott looked up from his homework and forced a small, crooked smile at his mom. It quickly disappeared and he shook his head and tapped his pencil lightly against his textbook.

Melissa headed to the kitchen, pulled out a plate of leftover lasagna from the fridge and popped it in the microwave. She set some water to boil and grabbed a tea bag from the cupboard. She too didn't have much of an appetite, but she wanted to make sure Scott at least ate something before going to bed. The microwave beeped just as the kettle began to whistle. She pulled the plate of now-sizzling lasagna out of the microwave and poured the hot water into her mug, gently mixing in the flavor of the tea bag. Flicking the kitchen light switch off with the bottom edge of the mug, she made her way to Scott at the dining room table and set the food beside his papers.

"I know you could smell this while I was cooking it, and I sense that your lack of protest means you're actually hungry. Now, eat."

She sat across him and slowly sipped on her tea, only getting a good view of the top of Scott's head as he shoveled the food down without looking up. _He mustn't have eaten all day_ , she thought.

Not wanting to interrupt with idle conversation, and unsuccessful in her previous attempts at connecting with Scott and helping him through this, she flicked on the small, old television in the room to watch the six o'clock evening news and drown out the awkward silence.

A piece about an accident on the freeway. A piece with the president speaking at his podium. A piece about some celebrities getting married. Then, the local news bit.

Beacon Hills. Mysterious death of a teenage boy. Stilinski.

Melissa froze, and she noticed Scott did too.

"...Sheriff, this was your son, correct?"

"Yes."

"How difficult does this make the investigation on you?"

Looking irked by the question, the Sheriff replied with "Incredibly difficult. I-It's—" his voice began to break and he paused to clear his throat, "it's incredibly difficult... I-I'm sorry." That was all he could get out before breaking away from the press conference podium, to which the room suddenly filled with dozens of curious reporters shouting questions at him, including one, "How confident are you that you'll solve the case?"

The Sheriff already knew what happened. This whole "investigation" was for the media and the media alone. No one would have believed or needed the cult media attention of an explanation to the tune of _a demon possessed a teenage boy and took away all of his life's energy as it left his body, killing him_.

Melissa finally found the power to shut off the TV, long after she should have. When she looked back at Scott, she saw his face was wet with tears.

"Oh, Scott..." she set down her mug and got up from her chair and circled around the table, instantly giving into that motherly instinct she'd been waiting for to kick in. She crouched behind him and wrapped her arm around his chest, letting his head rest in her embrace. For a moment, she thought about how stupidly simple this was—that all he needed was to be held and to feel safe and loved. _Why hadn't I thought of this before?_ Scott was always the one saving others, embracing them, providing his warmth. But now he needed that from someone else. Who better than his own mom?

Little did she know, however, that this was the therapy she needed too. It wasn't until she felt that unmistakable lump in her throat that she had realized how much this was all affecting her. And why wouldn't it? It was almost like she had lost her own son.

They held each other like that for a while, in silence, until Melissa's knees ached from kneeling. With one last rub of Scott's arm, she got up and wiped the remaining moisture from beneath her eyes, careful not to smudge her makeup, though she was sure she'd have to reapply it anyway.

She grabbed her now-lukewarm mug of tea and headed back to the kitchen. She heard Scott's fork clank gently against the plate as he finished off his food and set the plate aside. Then, "Thank you."

"Hm?"

"Just... saying thank you," Scott cleared his throat.

Melissa nodded and smiled gently. "Do you need anything?"

"I'm fine. I'm gonna finish my homework upstairs," he replied flatly.

"Alright. I'm heading over to Stilinski's in a bit to see how he's doing and bring him some food. Call me if anything, alright?"

Scott acknowledged her and tucked his things under his arms before heading up the stairs. He was at the top and about to enter his room when his mom stopped him from the foyer. "Hey. I love you."

"Love you too," Scott echoed genuinely.

After he settled in his room, his mom shuffled around downstairs as she freshened up and prepared a quick meal before heading out the door and pulling the car out of the driveway.

\---

With the sun setting as early as five, it was hard to tell what time it was based on the amount of light out. It was already dark when he dozed off, but now he had no idea what time it was, and he couldn't find his phone to check, either. Without any other clocks in his bedroom or a watch on his wrist, and out of general necessity of needing his phone, he focused all his energy on searching for it, though tossing his things around his room yielded him nothing.

_Maybe I left it downstairs?_

As he left his room he heard a soft whishing sound, almost like the noise an old TV makes when it can't find a signal. _Wait, that's exactly what that is._

"Mom?" he called out as he headed down the stairs. He could see the soft glow of the dining room TV filling the room as he descended the final few steps. "Hey, mom? You home?"

No answer.

Feeling a bit uneasy, he peered out of the shades beside the front door and saw an empty driveway. She wasn't home yet. He remembered her shutting off the TV before she headed out.

After hesitating a bit, he shook his head and grabbed the remote and hit the power button. The white noise was gone, and he was met with a relative, almost deafening silence. With his heightened hearing, the high-pitched whine of that TV used to drive Scott insane when he was first turned. He's since learned to control it, but he'd still rather not use that TV if at all possible.

He set the remote down on the counter beside the TV, flicked on the light and resumed searching for his phone. He looked where he had been sitting earlier, in the kitchen, even on the floor in case he had dropped it, and still, nothing. He'd given up on this area of the house and was just about to head back upstairs when it came on again.

He leaned over and saw the what looked like a blizzard happening behind the glass. The sound of the white noise and the high-pitched whine started getting to him.

Scott, a bit more apprehensive this time, grabbed the remote and hit the power button again. And again, the TV responded accordingly and shut off at his command.

But Scott didn't get a chance to set down the remote before it turned back on yet again. Taking logical steps, he removed the batteries from the remote and turned the TV off with the power button on the front. Well, he _tried_ to do so. But it remained on. Growing irritated as the whining grew louder in his head, he reached behind the TV and pulled the plug from the wall.

Relief.

But only for a few seconds, as this time, the lights in the room flickered out and the TV came back on once more.

_What the actual f—_

"Shhhhccc..."

Scott tilted his head to the side, curious and unsure if he'd actually heard something or if he was just slowly losing his mind.

"Shhhhhcott..."

_Did that just say _Scott_?_

"Shhhhhh..."

He stood there, totally still and focused. The whine grew louder and it felt like the room was getting darker around him.

"Shhhhhcc..."

Either his mind was playing tricks on him, or there was something coming through the static. A visible figure. A human figure.

Scott crouched closer to the TV and looked down for a moment, fumbling with the remote to turn the volume up louder. When he fixed his eyes back up on the TV, he froze.

"S-Stiles...?" was all Scott could breathe out.

"Scott, it's m..." Stiles' silhouette appeared blurred and unclear in the noise. It looked like he was trying to press his hand against the screen. "Scott, can you ... r me? Ca- ... hear me? Sco-"

Scott was slack-jawed and in total disbelief. He squinted a bit as the shadow on the screen faded in and out of focus. He looked at his fingers, as Stiles had taught him, to check if this was a dream.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

Five fingers. Not a dream. That wasn't the outcome he was hoping for.

He glanced up again and found himself staring at what might have been his best friend's _ghost_.

"Scott ... -ser me, plea ... Scott," was what he could make out.

He processed the words but remained in his state of shock. There was no way this was real.

And then, without warning, the TV shut itself off and the lights in the room came back on. Whatever that was, it was over.

Scott, having finally snapped out of his trance, scrambled to his feet and started banging on the side of the TV.

"Stiles? Stiles?!"

_Of course there's no response, you missed your chance, you idiot._

_My chance to talk to a ghost? I'm fucking losing it. I don't even believe in ghosts._

_But I didn't believe in werewolves either. Or demons..._

_Maybe it was real. Maybe that was all real..._

"Ugh, FUCK!" He slammed the counter, careful not to smash one of the few TV sets they had in the house. His mom wouldn't be happy.

Then, he heard his phone start ringing. It came from upstairs in his bedroom. He quickly made it up the stairs and answered his mom's call.

"Hey, I'm on my way home. Need anything on the way?"

"Nah, thanks mom."

"Okay, see you soon."

He ended the call and then glanced at the phone he'd been looking for all this time. 8:26pm. And 24 unread text messages.

All of them were from Stiles.


	2. Chapter 2

Scott understandably had trouble sleeping that night. He'd dealt with all kinds of supernatural phenomena since being turned, but this wasn't just another creature that went bump in the night. This was Stiles.

Or at least he thought it was.

The thought of the Nogitsune having returned to play tricks on Scott crossed Scott's mind, but that was more of a nightmare scenario than anything—the Nogitsune was dead. It had to be. _Right?_

He shook that thought away and grabbed his phone again to investigate the text messages that came from Stiles' number. They were all still blank, just as they were all nineteen times he'd checked in the past two hours. He wasn't sure if the phone was at the police station marked as evidence, or if Stiles' father had taken it home, but regardless, who would steal it and send Scott 24 blank texts?

Unless, of course, it wasn't stolen or hijacked at all, and this was all part of the strange happenings from earlier. _Maybe it was just another way that Stiles was trying to reach out..._

Frustrated with all of the different thoughts and theories spinning around in his head, he sat up in his bed and rubbed his eyes. It was roughly 11pm and his mom had been asleep for a while. Trying not to make too much noise, he slipped out of his pajamas and into an old hoodie and some lacrosse shorts, grabbed his shoes and climbed through his window, squeezing his heels into the back of his shoes while sitting on the window sill. Once set, he leaped down into a soft patch of grass and glanced up at his mom's window to make sure he didn't wake her. Once assured, he was off.

Scott ran for a while. He didn't have a watch and he kept his phone in his room because he wanted to clear his head, so he lost track of time. It didn't matter to him too much—the goal was to run until he was so tired that he couldn't do anything but sleep.

And so he ran and ran and ran, cutting through sleeping neighborhoods and whizzing along winding forest trails, careful to avoid obstacles in the form of various roots and branches just waiting for their chance to knock him down. His feet hit the ground in a controlled rhythm with which he synchronized his breathing. He breathed in for two strides, then breathed out for two strides.

In, out.

_So far, so good. I can loop around the school and back to my house and I should be fine. This was a good idea._

In, out.

With a focus on his movement and surroundings, his mind finally began to clear. He thought about the smells of the night air and the brightness of the moon and the silence of the night. He wondered why he didn't do this more often.

In, out.

In, out.

In, ...

He wasn't sure what happened. One second, he was a machine, charging through a forest clearing. The next, he's on his back, winded, unsure who or what knocked him down.

Whatever it was, it hit him hard. It almost felt as though he hit a tree, or maybe a wall, but not a solid one—it was more like a force field that bounced him back. Or maybe a very concentrated gust of wind.

His hands fumbled around him, but he couldn't see a thing as he struggled to pick himself up off the ground. He felt unusually heavy and weak. _Maybe... let me just give myself a second..._

He rubbed at his brow and blinked a few times, each blink letting in a little more light and clearing up his vision. And with each blink, he noticed an unusual silhouette hovering over him.

_There's no way..._

He squeezed his eyes closed tight and opened them quickly in an attempt to get a better view before it was all gone away. The disheveled hair, the unmistakable deep brown eyes, the little moles... it was Stiles, undoubtedly. 

"Stiles?" Scott continued trying to blink him into focus, worried that he was going to lose him again. Stiles' mouth appeared to be moving, and his expression seemed upset. Scott couldn't hear anything, nor could he decipher what the movement of his lips meant. "Stiles, what are you... what are you saying?" Scott groaned out, still unable to move very much.

Somehow, he felt like he was getting weaker, and the light his eyes began to fade. "Stiles, I can't... hear," he croaked out once more.

"Stiles..."

And then, blackness.

\---

Scott didn't know how long he was out there, but he woke up with a jolt once he realized he wasn't in his own bed. He looked around in the early morning light to find himself lying in a clearing in the woods. He remembered having gone running, then coming to about this spot, then... nothing. It didn't look like he'd tripped on anything, given the fact that there was nothing to trip on within five feet all around him. He didn't have any bruises or cuts on him either, or any signs of healing ones he might have sustained. Just a headache that pounded on the walls of his skull as he moved to get up, and an overall feeling of uneasiness.

Judging by the sunrise, he figured he probably had about an hour to get home, change, and get to school. He brushed some dead leaves out of his hair and jogged his way home.

Today was going to be a long day.

\---

He only slept through his morning classes. After lunch, he had at least one eye open for the rest of the afternoon. He couldn't help it that his head was throbbing despite the ridiculous amount of Advil he'd swallowed.

But apparently his behavior was unacceptable enough to warrant an after school detention, which seemed entirely pointless because he'd probably sleep through that, too.

Before going to the assigned detention room, he grabbed his bag from his locker and swung by the bathroom as other students filtered out of the school. He did his business and stood washing his hands at the sink for a while, examining himself in the mirror. He looked half-dead, by his calculations. His eyes were dark and bloodshot. As the waves of pain came crashing at the sides of his skull, he worried for a moment that maybe he had suffered a concussion last night when he blacked out. He leaned down and splashed some colder water onto his face which provided some temporary relief.

When he came up again and met his reflection in the mirror, it wasn't alone.

And suddenly, Scott remembered exactly what happened last night.

He'd been running when suddenly Stiles appeared right in front of him. It seemed like an accident that Scott ended up knocked over. He remembered struggling to listen to what Stiles was trying to say, and he remembered the somber look on the boy's face before it all went dark.

There he was again, though this time he wasn't just a shadow in an old television or a dark, blurry figure in a state of half-consciousness. He appeared clear as day, standing behind Scott, staring right at him.

Scott froze. Stiles wasn't smiling, but he didn't look angry or vengeful or demonic in any sense. Scott mentally crossed "Nogitsune mind games" off of his list of hypotheses as he looked into the reflection for a bit longer before working up the courage to do something before he lost this connection again.

"Stiles..." Scott said as he turned and found himself alone again. He faced the mirror once more and found there was nothing but himself gazing back at him.

He turned off the faucet and wiped a his face with his sleeve. He noticed his headache had seemingly subsided a bit, but now he was just exhausted. Both physically and emotionally.

Was Stiles trying to tell him something? Why did he look like something was wrong? It was already extremely difficult to even think about moving on, but being visited by a ghost three times within the past 24 hours was making that impossible. And to think that, even in this _afterlife_ , something might still be wrong?

In a daze, he made his way out of the bathroom and down the hall to the detention room. Only an hour stood between him and a nice, long sleep in his own bed.

Or, at least he hoped the rest of the day would go that way.


End file.
